


Acquiescence

by Lilou88



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Drama, F/M, Heartbreak, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilou88/pseuds/Lilou88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been six days since Danarius' death, and Hawke is growing increasingly worried by Fenris' absence. When she makes her way to his mansion to check in on him, what she finds is enough to break her heart all over again. Written for a DA kmeme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off of a prompt I found on the DA K!meme which wouldn't leave me alone until I finally wrote something down.
> 
> The OP asked for a F!Hawke post-Fenris-leaving finding him hooking up with or appearing to be hooking up with Isabela, and basically wanted to see her reaction to him moving on from their tryst. I thought it would be interesting to tackle, because while there are a lot of fics that I've seen where Fenris has to come to terms with Hawke moving on, I have seen next to nothing about the opposite situation. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Hawke picks her way slowly through the dim foyer of Fenris' mansion, her eyes straining against the darkness as she moves towards the staircase at the back of the room. Already her foot has caught more than once on the crumbled remains of a statue or some other scattered piece of detritus, shaking her balance and threatening to send her tumbling to the floor. She clutches the fragile bottle of wine she carries closer to her chest at the recollection of it, more concerned by the threat a fall would pose to its well-being than her own.

It's far from a valuable vintage, the taste too bitter for her personal liking and far less refined than the countless other bottles stashed away in her estate's cellars, though these things had mattered little in her selection. Hawke had pilfered the half-filled bottle from a trunk underneath the bed in her mother's disused room, hidden away amongst the few keepsakes she had managed to salvage before the Blight had driven them from Lothering. The far away look Leandra had worn when Aveline had first asked about its significance in a dank ship's hold was still clear as day in her daughter's reminiscence. The woman's voice had been strained when she answered, choked over the sound of her late husband's name as she recounted the rushed wedding ceremony they had convinced an elderly Chantry sister to preside over and the toasts they had shared afterwards from the same bottle in question.

Her mother had insisted the remainder of the vintage be saved "for a special occasion", one which Hawke was certain she had hoped would include her only remaining daughter in a white dress and exchanged vows of devotion. The machinations of a mad man had ensured she would not live to see such notions met.

A twinge of guilt quivers as she reaches out to place a hand on the balustrade, her conscience all too aware of the disapproving frown Leandra would have worn if she were to know the intentions she held for her treasure. She presses the thought to the back of her mind as she climbs the first step, her jaw set in new-found determination. Her mother's wishes were her own, not Hawke's, and she cannot allow herself to continue chastising her inability to live up to the woman's every expectation.

Besides, the demise of a heartless Magister is a far more pertinent occasion for her to rejoice in.

Danarius has been dead for six days now, his corpse left to rot in the bowels of the Darktown sewers. She has not seen or heard from Fenris in as many days, having watched the elf retreat from the Hanged Man with head bowed and gauntlets stained by the flesh and blood of his former master's throat. Initial desires to chase after the man, to offer him her support as much as to reassure herself he would not act out on any foolish ideas such high-strung emotions often encouraged, had been quickly suppressed. She knew he had needed time and space, an opportunity to tend to his reopened wounds in privacy. So she had given it to him.

Her patience had slowly ebbed away over the course of the following days to be replaced by mounting worry and concern. It had never taken him this long to emerge from one of his self-induced isolations; not after Hadrianna, not after the night they had – no, she will not stir up those memories. Not now. More important matters are at hand, and she cannot afford the distraction. There will be time enough for such ponderings later.

She finds the door to his bed chamber ajar as she crests the top of the stairwell, warm light escaping the confines of the room to pool on the floor of the otherwise stark hallway. Conversation reaches her ears as she approaches, the familiar sound of Isabela's sultry purr mingling with Fenris' husky baritone. The congenial tone of their words bring a smile to her face and send relief flooding through her veins, relaxing muscles she had not realized were tense. It seems her anxiety, while well intended, was misplaced.

Hawke comes to a stop just outside of the doorway, unwilling to interrupt the conversation between the elf and pirate queen. There is a smile in his voice she has not heard in ages, its sound more beautiful than any choir's hymn, and she cannot bear to bring about its end with her intrusion. Instead she waits for a lull in their discourse to announce her arrival, resolving to bide her time in the shadowed corridor.

The wine is placed upon a battered side table as she peers through the door, her gaze falling upon her friends for the first time. Isabela sits on one of the wooden benches with her token nonchalance, one leg draped elegantly over the other as her jewelry glitters in the firelight. Fenris occupies his usual place by the hearth, his hands folded in his lap as a rare grin turns one corner of his mouth, its sight making Hawke's heart skip several fluttered beats while she fights against a sudden urge to trace its path with her fingers.

"Have you given any more thought to what you'll do now?" the pirate asks, her question pulling Hawke out of her momentary daze. "You could go wherever you'd like. There isn't anything holding you back."

"I'm well aware of that," Fenris says, his attempt at annoyance off set quite beautifully by the continued quirk of his lip.

"I think you should travel. For a little while at least. Get out there, see the world, that sort of rubbish," Isabela says, gesturing towards one of the dust coated windows along the far wall.

"I've spent the last ten years traveling," he says, arms folding across his chest, "I would think so much time would be more than sufficient."

"You've spent the last ten years _running_ ," she counters, the shake of her head making her earrings glow, "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I can't imagine you were able to fit in much time for sight-seeing between dodging mercenaries and hiding out in caves."

the elf's posture softens as a thoughtful look crosses his face. "I - suppose you have a valid point." 

"Oh, I know! You could become a raider! Join my crew!" Isabela says excidedly, her hazel eyes glinting, " You'd get to see the world, and I'd get to stare at your lanky ass whenever I wanted. It's a win-win for everyone."

Hawke stifles an amused snort into her hand. She has to hand it to her friend, she is nothing if not persistent in going after what she wants, even despite her inevitable rejection. For seven years she has listened to the Rivaini's endless coquette about his eyes or his build or the color of his small clothes, seen the way she leers at his markings like a predatory cat eying its next victim, and for seven years she has witnessed his constant, staunch rebuttal. Fenris' reasoning behind his dismissal of the pirate's flirtations remain unconfirmed, but a small part of her, the piece of her heart which refuses to release the hope it still holds, cannot help but believe it has something to do with the band of red fabric she can see still wrapped around his wrist. The same one he had only taken to wearing in the days following their tryst.

The elf had always avoided the subject of the night she had invited him into her bed, deflecting accusations of affection for her from their companions with gruff denials or silence. The trinket, however, (whose color and material were suspiciously similar to an old hair ribbon which had gone missing ages ago) had remained in place ever since, Hawke even managing to catch the occasional glimpse of him caressing the thing with a thumb when he did not think she was looking. She had never pressed the man for an explanation, unwilling to force a confrontation for fear of only driving him farther away, and so chose to feed her stubborn Ferelden optimism with the token's continued presence.

It is this same damned optimism, she will decide when looking back on this evening in the long days to follow, which is to blame for just how much the next several minutes will hurt.

"A tempting proposition. One I will be sure to give ample consideration," Fenris says, an unmistakable smirk appearing both in his face and his tone, one dark brow disappearing into his hair. "But for now, I cannot help but suspect you had a more – urgent – reason for your visit? The hour is rather late for a simple social call."

The laughter Hawke had fought to suppress only seconds before dies an abrupt death, swallowed whole by the crater left behind where the bottom of her stomach has dropped away. She blinks once, twice, gaping at the profile of the still-grinning elf while her mind struggles to decipher the meaning he had held behind his words. She does not need to wait long for clarification.

"Well, now that you mention it," Isabela says with a lascivious lilt, standing from her bench to stretch her arms above her head and making the swell of her breasts pull at the bindings of her corset. "I thought you might be interested in a bit of a celebration in honor of that slovenly fop of a magister's oh-so-tragic end."

"I see, and just what did you have in mind? Drinks at the Hanged Man?" he asks slowly, teasingly, his appreciation of the pirate's languid movements making Hawke's blood run cold.

"Not quite," she purrs, one hand coming to rest on the sash at her waist as she takes a few steps towards the seated man, her eyes narrowing to an inviting leer while the firelight casts her in flattering shadows.

A small voice in the back of Hawke's mind is screaming, incensed. It knows where this encounter is sure to lead, knows exactly what proposition is implied in the tilt of the Rivaini's hips and sashayed steps which have made the pupils of Fenris' once green eyes turn to onyx gems. It bellows of injustice, of three years waiting in silence, of long nights spent trying to convince herself that his excuse of returned memories was not the lie forged out of desperation it now saw it was.

_"_ _No,_ " she challenges it, though a tremor of fear shoots like lightning down her spine as she watches the pirate's unrelenting approach. " _He wouldn't lie. Not Fenris. Not about this._ "

Isabela is close now, within arm's reach of the warrior. She leans over his lap while her hands brace her weight on either side of his chair, the sharp angle of her position granting him an uninhibited view of her cleavage. He smiles - a wicked, hungry looking thing.

" _Leave!_ " the same voice shouts, now sounding more panicked than resentful. " _Now! Don't watch this!_ "

She will not, can not, obey its command. This is Fenris, her Fenris. She knows he won't go through with this. In the next few seconds he'll realize what he's doing, recant his acceptance of her advances with his usual sarcastic denial, and Isabela will laugh out a proclamation that he can't resist her forever with an overly exaggerated wink. Just as they always do. If she leaves now, doesn't see it for herself, the doubt will drive her mad. She has to endure, for her own sanity if nothing else.

The pirate has placed herself in his lap now, each of her tanned legs resting on either side of his own in a far too easy familiarity. She runs a finger down his chin and onto his neck, tracing the lyrium lines until they disappear under leather and steel. Fenris hisses at the contact, a sharp intake of breath which has his head thrown back against his chair, both of his gauntleted hands finding purchase on her hips. His hands clutch, the pointed edges of his gloves digging into her skin, earning him an appreciative moan before Isabela moves a hand of her own to tangle in his hair. She pulls him close.

He kisses her.

Hawke's world crashes to dust at her feet. There is no sound, no sight, no feeling. Nothing other than the nightmare playing out before her very eyes. She is frozen in place where she stands, unable to breath for the vice which has clamped itself around her chest, her lungs unable to take in all but the smallest of short, painful gasps. Her stomach pitches and churns as though she might be sick, but still she cannot look away.

They are standing now, or rather Fenris is, supporting Isabela's weight as he staggers forward to press her back against the wall, a low growl tearing from his lips as she wraps her legs tighter around his waist. Her hands trail away from his hair, down his arms and over his chest, until they disappear between their hips. Deft fingers, the same ones Hawke has praised again and again for their practiced ease in picking locks and disarming traps, busy themselves with what she can only assume are the laces of his breeches. The hoarse groan and involuntary buck the elf gives when she slows are all the conformation she needs.

The pirate's hands shift once more, this time to produce a dagger from the cuff of her boot. She shimmies the blade under her sash and there is the tell-tale sound of fabric ripping, followed by the sight of a pair of destroyed black smalls being tossed haphazardly to the floor, the blade soon landing on them with a muffled _thump_.

Fenris stills, pulling his mouth from her's to catch his breath, his forehead resting against her shoulder as his chest heaves. His eyes open, and Hawke sees his focus fall onto the fabric fastened around his still-armored hand. A crease appears in his brow as though he is in deep thought, and for a few, gloriously exhilarating seconds, she is certain her torment has finally come to its end.

"Don't stop now," Isabela says, pouting in mock dejection as she thrusts her hips forwards to elicit a violent shudder from the elf. "I didn't ruin a perfectly good pair of smalls for nothing."

"I – just a moment," he says without looking to her, his sight never leaving the band.

There is a clinking of fastenings and a whisper of leather. Then, with a resounding _thunk_ like an executioner's ax, his gauntlets are thrown carelessly to the floor, the scarlet cloth looking more like a smeared bloodstain in the flickering light.

Hawke stares for seconds, minutes, hours for all she knows. Time has come to a complete and utter stop. There are no panted sighs or stifled moans, no sound of frantic movement and rustled clothing. There is only this simple swatch of red, discarded like a piece of useless refuse.

Like her.

She takes an unsteady step backwards, the iron-cold reality making her head swim and vision blur. Her stomach heaves, making her gag on bile which burns the back of her throat like acid. She knows if she takes one more glance at the two of them now, coupling so easily, so effortlessly, she _will_ be sick. She can not stay, she has to leave, now. She should have listened to the voice when it told her to flee. Or perhaps she shouldn't have come at all.

She spins on the balls of her feet, hair whipping about her face as she shuffles towards the staircase, her eyes left wanting for the abrupt change of light. She needs to run, to flee as fast as her legs will carry her out of this accursed place and away from the lingering image she knows will stay with her until her last day. But the action is too risky, her sight too impaired for such haste. She would be liable to trip again, and with her luck she would cause a racket loud enough to alert the lovers to their unintentional witness. So she tiptoes down each step, gripping the banister as if it is her only lifeline in a raging ocean, her teeth gritted against the sounds she can now hear clear as day wafting out past the open door.

Once she has reached the main floor she affords herself a slight increase in speed, skirting around the fallen obstacles with greater ease as her eyes begin to adjust. Soon she is at the main door of the mansion, her hand reaching out for the handle, when -

"Oh, MAKER! FENRIS!"

She falters at the shout, the last intact pieces of her heart shattering as she stumbles to one side of the door. Her shoulder falls against something hard, and it is only when it is too late that she realizes she has toppled one of the two Tevinter effigies flanking the mansion's entrance. There is a resounding _crash_ as the statue falls to the floor, the sound of shattering tiles adding to the cacophony now echoing through the empty hall.

Two voices call out in astonishment from the upper levels, the same cracked door soon flung without preamble against the opposite wall to bathe the landing in yellow light. Weapons gleam as the elf and his pirate burst from the room, their eyes straining as they search for the source of the commotion.

They do not see the fluttering hem of a familiar robe as it disappears through the front door, and neither do they hear the cry its owner releases in agonized defeat as she slips into the cool dark of the Hightown night.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke sits before the mantel in a favored armchair, leaned forward over her lap with head rested in hand and dark tresses of hair weaved firmly around her fingers. A tumbler of half-finished brandy hangs forgotten between her knees, the heat of the liquor having proven ineffective in her attempts to chase away the deep-seated chill which has persisted since her retreat home. A small fire sputters in the hearth before her, its blaze the only source of light to permeate the otherwise sombre darkness which has descended over both the bed chamber and its single inhabitant. Her expression is blank as she stares into the flames, red-rimmed eyes swollen from equal parts exhaustion and sorrow.

Somewhere off in the distance the Chantry's bells chime, ringing in the beginning of the first hour of the new day with uncaring conviction. Their tolls reverberate off of the room's high walls, the sound a callous reminder of a morning which is soon to come. The long beared burdens of a city in decay will reawaken with the rising of the sun, its first rays their signal to settle themselves upon the so-called "Champion's" shoulders once more, their presence an unsympathetic counterpart to the new weight of the night's events.

Hawke curses under her breath at the flash of images which resurface to assail her mind, her eyes screwing shut against their onslaught and the appearance of fresh tears as she pulls back to sit straight in her chair. A flash of gold, an amorous smile, the sound of falling metal. No, she won't relive it anymore, she refuses to. There has already been more than enough weeping for one night.

Her hand falls from her face to rest at the top of her breast, the jump and pull of muscles under her touch working to loosen the knot which has lodged itself in the base of her throat. A few moments pass before her lids reopen to glare into the fire, its orange hue glinting in her gaze. Her mouth thins, lips pulling taut as she lets a calming breath through her nose. There is too much at stake for her to crumble now. Too many people relying on her, depending on her. She won't let herself falter because of him again, not when her melancholy can only be blamed on her own foolishness.

" _You should have known better,_ " a spiteful voice says, though its anger can not hide the unmistakable pity in its tone. " _He left you, made it clear nothing else would come of it. He never once gave you reason to think otherwise._ "

" _But the token -_ "

" _Meant nothing. It was a souvenir for him, a trophy of-_ "

" _Stop it_ ," she says, teeth gritting, unable to accept the possibility. " _Don't say that. Fenris was – is a friend. He – he wouldn't use me. It was the memories, he left because of the memories._ "

" _Are you so certain? Or are you trying to protect yourself behind yet another lie? He seemed to be having no such difficulties when it was Isabela wrapped around his-_ "

"ENOUGH! He wouldn't!" she shouts to the empty room, brandy sloshing over the edge of its glass to drip onto her hand.

"He wouldn't," she repeats in a whisper, more defeated sough than affirmation as she falls back against the cushion of her chair.

Time continues to move in the lingering hush, the only indication of its passing the occasional peal of tower bells. Soon the second hour of the night has come and gone and the woman has not moved, though her mind has remained a chaotic whirlwind of accusations, grief and half-formed explanations.

In this time the fire has slowly died down to glowing coals, its embers gleaming to cast the hearth in shadows. Eventually she glances in its direction, stirring from her resting place and setting her liquor aside on a table. She drops to her knees before the mantel, gathering a few pieces of kindling at its side to feed to the cinders. There will be no sleep for her tonight, the flames may as well keep her company until morning.

A muffled groan from her chamber door makes her still as she stokes the blaze back into life. The noise was low, quiet enough so that most would have missed it completely - herself included if not for the hours she has spent in muted exile. She struggles to suppress a chuckle, amused by the idea that some Hightown thug is either brave or asinine enough to attempt a jump on her in her own home. And tonight of all nights. Andraste's ass, they truly must have a death wish.

Warmed iron presses into her skin as her grip tightens around the poker in her hand, putting herself on the defensive while ears strain for the first sign of a creak or shuffle to pinpoint the intruder's location. There, behind her and to the left. A footstep. Eerily light in its movement, so much so that she is only made aware by the subtle rustle of leather which accompanies it, but this is all she needs.

Tendons twist and robes sweep about her legs as she stands to face the trespasser in a flurry of movement, turning with impromptu cudgel sent swinging towards their neck. Metal strikes metal with a thunderous _clang_ , and Hawke's eyes jump from dangerous slits to terrified saucers.

"Your reflexes are as precise as always, Hawke," the elf says with what she notices fleetingly as forced humor, emerald-green peering into cerulean blue behind a sheet of white hair. "though it seems I'm still too fast for you. I have to admit, I'm quite glad of that at the moment."

"F-Fenris -" she says, horrified as she sees where the man has managed to block the red-hot poker with the outside of his gauntlet and just how close she has come to striking him with it. The rod is thrown at the hearth, clattering against the stonework and bouncing in place before it settles.

"Maker's balls, what were you thinking sneaking in here like that!" she snaps, temper flaring at the warrior's sever lack of common sense. "I thought you were one of those Crimson Weaver bastards! I could have taken your damned head off!"

He lowers his arm, gaze held fast to Hawke's face, the intensity enough to send a painfully familiar tremble down her spine.

"I apologize. I wasn't certain you would be awake at this hour."

She turns her back on him with an irritated snort, unwilling to allow him a glimpse of the sadness she feels welling up to replace her ire. Desperate for a distraction, she takes hold of her discarded liquor and moves towards the bar cart between the mantel and her armoire.

"So you think it better to stalk through my house in the middle of the night like some half-wit assassin? Not one of your more intelligent ideas." Glass clicks against glass as she pours a measure into the tumbler, adding to the brandy still left. Her hand shakes as she stoppers the decanter. She takes a generous sip, swishing the drink round her mouth, stalling for the time she needs to gain control over her racing heart.

"What's so important that you couldn't wait to speak to me until morning, anyway?" she finally asks, looking over her shoulder to find Fenris has stepped fully into the firelight, flames glowing against his armor. She glances down without thought, her stomach lurching as she catches sight of the red swatch still tied in place around his wrist. A flash of anger shoots through her, better judgment momentarily overcome by an intense desire to rip the blighted thing from his hand and cast it into the fire.

"I'm quite sure you already know the answer to that," he says carefully, voice unusually soft, gentle even. It catches Hawke off guard, pulling her focus from the token and to his face. Panic tears through her in an instant, the knowing look he wears making her want to cower like a guilty child caught raiding the larder.

"I'm no mind reader, Fenris," she manages to say with cool composure, staring off into the dark corners of her room. "You'll have to be a bit more specific. I'm not in the mood for guessing games."

"Blatant dishonesty is unbecoming of you."

"I assure you I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

"I know you were there, Hawke."

"There where? What do you mean? You're not making any sense."

"Hawke -"

"If you're just going to sit here spouting bunk, I suggest you go. It's late, I'm tired, and -"

" _Hawke._ "

Clawed fingers press into her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. She strains against his hand, glowering at how easily he has anchored her in place. Her mouth opens, demands for her release poised at the tip of her tongue, but the words are cut short by the appearance of a bottle in Fenris' hand. Heat unrelated to the fire rises in her cheeks as she gapes at the label, the sharp lines of her father's handwriting plain for all to see.

_Hawke 9:07 Dragon_

Her head turns towards the fire, unable to look the man in the eye. "Glad to see those reading lessons stuck after all," she says quietly, throat constricting around the shame she knows he can hear.

"You were there tonight."

"Yes."

"You saw Isabela and I together."

"Yes."

"And this has upset you?"

" _Yes_ , alright? Maker's breath, are you happy now?" she snaps, ripping from his grasp with a furious jerk to shove herself away from him. "What does it matter to you anyway, Fenris? Does it stoke your ego to know seeing you with her hurt? To know that even after waiting for _three damned years_ I was still enough of a bloody great fool to think I had a chance of being something more than an easy fuck to you?"

Silence stretches between them in the aftermath of her outburst, the only sound that of Hawke's heaving chest and short, shallow breaths. Unsteady arms wrap themselves around her middle, her free hand searching for purchase in the fabric of her house coat. She holds her chin high, stubborn pride refusing to allow any outward hint of repentance for her unintentional confession, regardless of the embarrassment which has turned her insides to lead.

Fenris only stares in response, mouth half-open and brows raising in shock. For all of a fleeting second there is a flash of something unreadable in his eyes.

"You – were waiting for me?" he asks tentatively, as though he is afraid to test the waters of continued conversation. "All that time?"

"That's what I just said."

A short pause, punctuated by the elf's further bewilderment.

"Why did you never say anything?"

"What exactly was I supposed to do, Fenris?" she asks in frustration, "Hound you until you changed your mind? Throw myself at you and risk pushing you farther away? In case you've forgotten, _you_ were the one who left in the middle of the night with nothing more than a half-formed excuse, not me."

"An admittedly lamentable mistake on my part," he says with head bowing, almost too quiet to hear. "One whose severity I am just now coming to fully understand."

Hawke laughs, an abrupt, harsh bark. "'Blatant dishonesty is unbecoming of you', Fenris." she says, repeating his earlier observation with the smallest hint of venom.

His head snaps up, expression wounded. "My remorse for my past behavior is sincere."

Their eyes meet again, his pleading, hers shining with unspoken accusations.

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"I _never_ lied."

She takes a step forward, jaw clenching. "That's a load of nug shit, Fenris, and you know it. You told me you couldn't stay, couldn't 'do this' because of the memories that came back when we were together. Forgive me, but I can't help but be a bit disinclined to believe that particular story now that I've seen you nailing Isabela to the wall like a Saturnalia wreath with no reservations."

Fenris reels as though she has struck him in the face. "Hawke... that is not -"

"Why couldn't you have told me the truth?" she demands, cutting him off. "Why not just tell me you didn't want me instead of stringing me along? And why in the name of the Maker would you start wearing that damned _thing_ around your wrist the moment you leave if what happened between us meant nothing to you?"

"Because it _did._ "

This time it is Hawke's turn to falter, her choler quelled in an instant by the sincerity she recognizes in his tone and the distressed twist of his features. When seconds tick by without her response, Fenris sighs, running a hand through pale locks of hair.

"I know it does nothing to excuse my actions, but I swear to you, what I told you that night was the honest truth."

He looks away, setting his gaze towards the fire. The lines of his face are cast into shadow, making him seem older, weary. His lilt is rough and doleful when he speaks next.

"I was a coward to run from the visions as I did. To run from you. There is nothing I have done in all my years that I regret more."

"Then why did _you_ never say anything, Fenris?" she asks, her question lacking in her earlier vexation. "If you regretted leaving then why not say so?"

He turns from the hearth, visage smoothed. "Because I thought I had ruined any chance I may have had. You seemed happy, better off without me. I was certain you had moved on."

There is another break as his answer tumbles through her mind, bitter comprehension growing as the pieces fit themselves into place.

"And so you did too..."

"I - suppose so."

"How long has it been?"

"With Isabela?" She nods in conformation, unable to form the words. "Recent. A few months at very most."

"Are there – do you still see-"

"In truth?" He hesitates, eyes averted. She is uncertain which answer she dreads more. "No. Not once, at least with her."

"Oh." It feels as though someone has stabbed her.

"I don't know why, Hawke," he says, easily sensing the hurt in her voice, "but please don't blame yourself. None of this was your doing."

She ignores him, choosing instead to push ahead, to press for the one answer she still needs. Her chest has begun to ache again, lungs tight and stomach turned to knots. Despair begins to rise through her veins, its ascent a whispered promise of a breakdown soon to follow. She will be damned if he is still here to witness it.

"Are you happy, Fenris?"

His answer is delayed as his gaze moves over her, lingering while he searches for something she can not name. Finally he says simply, quietly, "Yes."

"Good. I'm glad then."

"You're - glad?"

"Of course I am." she says with a sad smile, her honesty marred by the catch in her throat. "All I've ever wanted was happiness for you, Fenris. I can't mourn the fact that you've found someone who gives it to you – even if that person can't be me."

"Hawke, I -"

"It's late," she says, pivoting to place her brandy on the table again, using the opportunity to wipe at her dampened eyes without his notice. "You should probably go, get some sleep. Hubert needs us to check in on the Bone Pit tomorrow and it won't do us any good if we're exhausted even before we get there."

"You still wish for me to join you?" he asks in surprise.

"Why wouldn't I? We're still friends, aren't we?" she turns, brow raised. "Or has this little talk changed that as well?"

"No, not at all," he says hurriedly, rushing to dismiss the notion. "I only thought you would want time."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm a big girl. I'll be fine," then lower, under her breath and to herself as she walks towards her door, "It isn't like I haven't done it before."

"If that is what you want..."

"It is," she says, taking hold of the handle to usher him out. "I'll see you in the morning. We're meeting up with Aveline and Varric in the market at ten bells."

The elf crosses the room to leave but pauses just before the doorway, his attention snagged by the bottle still clutched in the talons of his gauntlet.

"I should return this to you," he says, offering the wine to her with an outstretched hand.

"It was meant to be a gift. Keep it." she insists, all too aware of how pathetic the gesture must seem to him without the proper explanation of its back story, though she can not find it in her to make mention of it now.

"You have my thanks, then," the elf says, the gratitude he shows, to his credit, appearing genuine. He pulls the bottle back, wrapping it in his arm and resting it against his breastplate, red swatch vivid next to its olive glass. "I – will see you tomorrow."

"Wait."

Her hand catches hold of his wrist as he moves to leave, fingers snagged on the token. Green eyes widen as recognition of her intent dawns, shining with astonishment and something akin to dismay.

"No. Don't."

"You know it isn't fair to Isabela, or yourself for that matter," she says firmly, a short " _or me_ " added noiselessly in her head.

"Hawke, please -"

"Give it to me, Fenris."

He pleads with her wordlessly for a moment more, mouth twisting into a grimace as though he wishes to continue to argue the point when his entreatment fails. Instead he says nothing, watching in reluctant surrender as her fingers work to loosen the knotted fabric. The material slips free from its place on his armor, flowing like tinted water to rest in the palm of her hand.

"What will you do with it?" he asks, voice low, concerned, casting the trinket in the same regard one might hold for an injured bird.

" _Burn it. Treasure it. Stuff it in the bottom of a trunk so I never have to look at it again._ "

"I don't know."

"Keep it safe," It is not a request, but an order. "Hold on to it for me. Perhaps in time I'll prove myself worthy of it."

Fingernails dig into soft flesh as her hand closes around the cloth, the suggestion of such hope as painful as her initial discovery. Eyes burn, and this time she is unable to hide the tears which come before he sees. He starts to reach out to her, hand moving as though to cup her cheek. She shirks away, not trusting herself to let him leave if he touches her.

"Be good to her. Treat her right," she says, as much an instruction as a warning. "And Fenris? Promise me something."

"Anything."

"If you do decide to leave, to join 'Bela's crew, come say good-bye first."

"I don-"

"Just promise me."

White hair casts itself in his face as he bows his head. "I promise."

"Thank you. I suppose this is good-night then."

"Until tomorrow, Hawke," He steps out of the room, stopping to look over his shoulder at the top of her stairwell, flashes of emerald catching in the light from her chamber. "For what it's worth – I am truly sorry."

"So am I, Fenris."

The hatch clicks into place behind her, shutting out the patter of the elf's feet as he descends the stairs. She falls back against the door, sliding down its carved surface until she rests at its base, the prospect of crossing back to her waiting chair a distinct impossibility. Tears begin to run with abandon while ugly sobs break free from her throat as her head drops against her knees. Her body shakes with the force of her cries, arms wrapping themselves around her legs in a desperate attempt to remain grounded in the renewed storm which crashes and pulls against her like waves on a rocky shore.

She will not surface for some time.

Hours later the room has fallen into silence, Hawke's head pillowed in her arms as she sleeps on the floor. She tosses and turns in her slumber, brow creasing as she struggles against some unseen adversary. There is a whisper of air, mouth moving to turn the breath into a murmured prayer.

" _Fenris._ "

A hand moves against the other, fingers tracing down the opposite palm until they find themselves at its base. Her contorted features relax, the twist of her lips gentling to a contented smile as she nuzzles her nose into the token she wears about her wrist, its bright crimson brilliant against the pale glow of her skin.


End file.
